I often feel like the harbinger of doom-and-gloom. There are so many issues that I see as important. Most of them result in death. Some have happy endings.

Fiction has been a respite for me. I don’t indulge in it often. It feels like a desert after a burnt roast. It’s hard to immerse oneself in fictional bliss when there is so damn much going on—that burnt roast.

I feel one of Robert Cormack‘s pieces tickling my mind. I stumbled through your blog, Robert, looking for the piece, but could not find it. That’s okay—I’ll just revel in the tickle.

But surrounding that tickle is the issue forefront in my mind—people are dying as the result of negligent homicide, and no one is charged in these deaths. Cases in point: